


Lion's Roar

by Schemilix



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schemilix/pseuds/Schemilix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every impulse. Every tear. Every desire. Every blemish. Every drop of blood heated in anger. Every bruise. Every scrape. Every vindictive wish. Everything he ever was that he had denied. Locked up and buried, burrowed deep. Down in the dirt of the mind, unbidden reaching. Claws disturbing the earth. All that was left, a coffin filled with remorse and a human being's wish to transcend. The discarded. The denied. The lust and the bloodlust. That was his gift, his power, it was the anvil upon which they broke a nation."</p>
<p>The Knights Templar are a pride without much pride left. The lioness, the cub and the rogue, most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fledgling - or, Wiegraf apologises for displaying emotion.

**Author's Note:**

> or, 'Folmarv is the douchiest douche ever to douche douchily'. This is going to be a long ride, folks. Anyway, I'll avoid too much preamble. Mostly PSP spellings apart from Izlude, which I just prefer how it is. Warnings for later content involving consent under duress, though I very much doubt anything explicit will occur; that's not my forte.

_Every impulse. Every tear. Every desire. Every blemish. Every drop of blood heated in anger. Every bruise. Every scrape. Every vindictive wish. Everything he ever was that he had denied. Locked up and buried, burrowed deep. Down in the dirt of the mind, unbidden reaching. Claws disturbing the earth. All that was left, a coffin filled with remorse and a human being's wish to transcend. The discarded. The denied. The lust and the bloodlust. That was his gift, his power, it was the anvil upon which they broke a nation._

**Wiegraf** :

Rain is a persistent factor in my misery, and I have learned to mistrust it. Call me self-pitying if you will, and I would be the last to speak of my own suffering when others bear so much. But some days a man's bones ache with the weight of sour memories. Even mine, though I wish I could carry the burdens of a hundred men and women. It would be better than seeing their frail bodies crushed under them. 

_I knelt in front of the old sword, quite long rusted but otherwise unharmed. Under its point, you lay, probably bones by now. Finding galbana lillies at that time of year wasn't easy, but then if it were easy they would surely grow on your grave. Perhaps I should have planted some but these fingers – they're red, not green. I remember placing the flowers by the sword._

_I knew I had to say a word, a eulogy where I was unable to back before the grass had grown over you. You were always better at rhetoric than I. All I could do, after all you gave me, is cry for you._

_I thought of a great many things to say – attempts at humour, even, all number of what I wish were witticisms. But...  
“Milleuda, forgive me.” _

_The words came more easily after that. These will have to do, I thought. Strange that I can hardly refer to her in third person even now, is it not? Even as I made my promise I was defied by some interloper. Before the words were fully out of my mouth he told me I would fail. My sword was out of its sheath before I truly registered the threat this man posed me, that he was likely after me for my bounty._

_Even before I saw him I hated him – then I saw the regalia of the Knights Templar. No, all I saw was the blue raiments. No, all I saw was red, in fact. This man who had to remind me of my tears for me to feel them in the rain. My grip tightened. I could have killed him, or tried at least, easily, this man whose name I didn't yet know. It startled me, cowed me into laying down my arms and listening to his snake's tongue._

_Forgive me. I dramatise in my anger, let me summarise bluntly: I was murderous, and yet here I am, a newborn Templar. Perhaps I even believed what he was telling me at the time._

Enough. The sun shines, does it not? There is warmth on my back as I walk back towards a beginning. I have to think about that. Milleuda told me that the same sun shone over Ajora and will shine if and when the world ends. Now it shines over her grave and sooner rather than later it will shine over mine. No matter what happens, that can be relied upon. There is something blessedly constant in that.

I look forward. This is partially because Loffrey is next to me and I can't stand his face. If he speaks, he will die. The only sound is the rain on the earth and the howl of the wind, sometimes a feral chocobo's screech. 

There's a long way of walking ahead and Loffrey is going to lead me into a trap. Somehow my gut doesn't agree, and it so far served me for much more than eating. More often than eating these days. A warrior trusts his gut and his brain, rarely his heart and never his ears.

 **Meliadoul** :

We haven't seen an initiate since Izlude. While he was too young at least he has our blood – I mean nothing of high-born or of the low-born, those are pittance to a Templar. What I mean is that we have noble hearts, and though we may have veins that run hot with anger at times, our fury bears us out in battle. Izlude shows more temperance but he is ferocious and strong inside, and we will make a good man and a knight of him yet.

This fledgling, though. His down was the armour of the Dead Men. Now he stands in armour red and gold. At least he doesn't pretend he had earned his wings yet. He swore during the ceremony, said something of Gods my father would have struck me for. Already he has a lot to prove. 

But it is not my place to fuss around new blood. For all I know his sword arm is strong. When it comes down to it the Knights Templar are not an aggregate of swords and shields but a single unit – if the blonde oaf finds his footing then I shall do all in my power to guard his back, as is my duty. I feel it my right to judge the new blood – think me not harsh, I merely have high standards for this order. I have been raised in the respect of it. I was told by both parents to say my prayers at night and taught by my father to answer them by day, with the blade if need be. Every day my skill in the Divine Blade grows. There is no such thing as a master, but I work still.

Today I practice with my brother. To his credit he grows skilled with his lance. Not skilled enough to best me, though he is two years my junior. For him I say today shall be practice but for me, it is a lesson in teaching others. I dislike the notion when I have so much to learn, but I was taught not to judge my elders. They know better.

Izlude is late.

“Izlude!” Must he? What can that boy get up to that takes so much time – I have told him a thousand times if I have told him once that today we are training at this hour and yet I see no little brother. I'm getting more annoyed until – Something drops from the bookcase and jabs me in the ribs. 

“Yes, sister,” Izlude says, withdrawing the butt of his lance. He's trying not to grin. I can't even scowl at him. After all, he isn't really late. 

“I see you have grown adept at taking your foes by surprise,” I tell him. Only once he sees my smile does he let his own free. I take a swipe at him and he moves away, laughing and boasting to me as he does,

“I was up on the bookshelf for half an hour Meliadoul, since I know you are oft early just so you can call me late.” 

I have to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. I'm not a girl any longer.

“Izlude, your voice is breaking. You shouldn't talk so much,” I say, swatting his practice lance away when he tries to jab my ribs again. “All I want to hear out of you for the next hour is 'yes, ma'am.'”

My brother grips his lance and salutes in the old style, theatrically. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. Now, today I will practice my shield and, as such, you will practice avoiding it. This is only necessary when engaging opponents from the front or side...”


	2. Bruise - or, Izlude Has Straw For Brains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schemilix proudly presents: Izlude's memory problems! Basically this is characterising the Tengille children - Meliadoul's grim competence and Izlude's slightly bumbling enthusiasm and confidence problems.

_The memory of bones in flesh. The memory of skin pale and translucent as porcelain. The memory of coughing in the night, of anger and pity at once. The memory of wishing for patience. The memory of cursing gods, one by one, as her life slipped away. The memory of burying a corpse with a sallow face and the bones of a bird. The memory of trying to forget, and failing, and anger. He is no monster. They are more._

**Meliadoul** :

Izlude has undoubtedly improved. For once I feel like he's listening when I speak; when I tell him how to parry he does as I ask and so blocks it, rather than trying, and failing, to flourish. War is not art. Not only will I teach him how to wield his weapon properly but I will teach him not to make a stunt of battle – it is not as pretty as the bards say, and he knows that. He has smelled blood and shit and sweat on the battlefield and yet he persists. My brother baffles me. Perhaps he's trying to hide it the same way he hides bruises with smiles. He is the only boy I have ever known with a cosmetics set. A gift from me – I do not use it, and he feels he must. Once only I had need of it – after that I thought to teach him how to make discoloured skin look normal again, and after a good deal of practice I believe that only I can see.

Today he doesn't, I can see when I look closely enough, but that only means the bruises aren't on his face or neck. I become distracted looking and Izlude, not expecting to hit me so easily, bruises my rib. Ouch! Focus, Meliadoul!

“Good show,” I wheeze, resisting the urge to put my hand over the knock. It won't serve anything, and it's best not to show pain unless necessary for the sake of the white mages and the summoners. I do not want to be the woman who takes a cure spell better spent on one truly wounded.

I can see Izlude consider my order to say nothing but 'yes ma'am' before he overcomes it and asks,

“Are you OK?” 

“It's fine. But enough for today, I think.” It isn't broken, but I won't be sleeping on that side for a while. “It's about time you started hitting me properly, brother. You're improving.” There's a glimmer in Izlude's eye at the praise.

He makes a face as he shoulders his lance. “I only hurt heretics.” 

“I'm not asking you to stab me,” I say, with a snort. “There's no way we can teach you if you hold back.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I always am.” 

I pull my hood down, running my fingers through my sweat-damp hair a few times to let the air reach my scalp. It's as I shake my head out that I notice my brother is laughing at me. My questioning look makes him affect an apologetic look, but he soon bursts out with,

“You look like a mop!”

At that I cannot resist the urge to pin Izlude in a headlock and ruffle his hair. I have no mercy. His protests are weakened by the fact that he can barely speak for laughing. I let him go and he, for lack of a better word, scampers off, trying in vain to reorder his hair as he does. It wasn't particularly tidy to begin with, so it's a lost cause. Bless his heart, but he tries. I shake my head out again, but both of us will look like scarecrows for a while yet. Tengille hair is coarse and stubborn, rather like the rest of us.

I watch him fuss, a queer feeling in my breast.

“Izlude.”

“Yes?” 

“Love you.”

He screws his face up at me but says, “Love you too, sister.”

I shoo him off, smiling.

 **Izlude** :

I love Meliadoul with all my heart, but sometimes I think she forgets I'm a man. No, not think – she has told me as much, that I am still a boy. But my years and my skills mark me as a man. It hurts when she will not see that. She thinks because I smile when she oft cannot that I must be blind but, well, I see. I just won't let things best me. It's different. I wish I could take her worries from her; she deals with them so poorly. She is like our father, and I take after our mother. She always smiled, so... 

I'm pleased with my progress, maybe because Meliadoul is. Unlike mother she doesn't lie to save my feelings. Mayhap I hit her too roughly when she was off guard, but it was an accident. It's rare indeed for my sister to lose concentration. I wonder. I'm certain I'd never hit her if she were looking – would I?

By the time I realise I haven't put my practice lance back in the armoury, I've already arrived at my chambers. Damn it! Focus, izlude! I prop it up against the wall where I'll see it when I leave. I'm exhausted. Meliadoul works me hard and I won't complain – she is a girl, after all, and if she can handle the strain then I certainly can. Still, my hands are shaking with effort as I fill a basin with the water that I brought in shortly before I left.

It's as I'm washing my face that I realise that I should be on guard duty – and that I left my real lance in the armoury, which is in the opposite direction. The others will only berate me for getting under foot but I must go, and quickly. With my sleeves still wet I find my second wind and sprint for the armoury. It isn't even that important, nobody ever comes here but... father's told me so many times, I need to learn discipline, and the small things are where I will learn them. So if standing outside for two hours in the rain is what I need to do so I stop forgetting things, I will, even if I catch cold or worse. Meliadoul tells me I would be a great knight if I could only remember to do things properly. I can't let her down.

At least I remember not to run with a lance; I won't be taking any eyes out that don't need taking out. I'm not a fool or a moron, after all, no matter what father says.


	3. All the Nothing - or, Wiegraf admits that the Corpse Brigade has done nothing for his figure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where she sees, he does not.

_Inside there is a fire and it scorches the earth. Inside is the Sun with its lion's mane, burning. Inside is wishing and remembering, inside she is. Inside there is the memory of the insurrection, of overturning, of being led by the shining one, the furious, bloody beauty. Inside is a lock long undone, and freedom. Inside he feels, it eclipses all else, it erases what he once was, all the regrets, it gives eternity and eternally. Inside he is one. They are whole._

 

 **Wiegraf** :

This entire charade is ridiculous. A Templar is like a hound for atheism and here I am, rinsing sacred ash off my face. The tradition is to mix it with butter to make it stick, now soap helps little.  
I am not a man of the gods; I am a man with a mission that a man of the gods shares. If he speaks the truth, which I doubt, but at the very least I can rely on eating here. It will help to have my old strength back, from the war. Weakness isn't something I'm familiar with, but I can recognise waning health in myself. Let me not be called vain but I have avoided mirrors – I do not like how hollow my eyes are, how little there seems to be of me. Perhaps that will change.  
As yet I've been careful. A year of exile and, I'll admit it, petty theft to survive – eating well can do more harm than good. A known fact to my kind, not theirs.  
The armour fits well and, what's more, the buckles are placed such that I can, if not gracefully, remove it unaided. My old armour was mostly leathers, and flexible with age. It's good to see the smiths behind the Templars had more in their head than damp straw when they made these. Perhaps I will even be able to say the same of the folk wearing them.  
Loffrey I have met (unfortunately), others I have met eyes with or spoken a word with where neither of us expressed much interest. Now may be the best time to speak with my new comrades. Whoever or whatever they are to their mothers they are swordarms first to me, we are to be each others' life line in a crisis. I need to know how they move. While I'm at it, I may as well do my best to actually like them.  
After the Brigade... I carry the memory of them like a badge, warm on my breast – but it does make for high expectations.  
I take to wandering the halls, dressed down. The young lad whose name I have yet to pick up dashes past me as if his hair is on fire, so I deem it best to leave him be for now. I follow in his wake, however, since I have yet to see much of the grounds. Tengille plans something, I hear, but not yet.  
The grass is dry and prickly under my palms when I sit down. Then I notice the bench some two feet away and laugh, but the floor smells of warm dust and evenings on the plains, so I had rather stay down here. I jump when I hear,  
“Something the matter, ser?”  
A female voice: the word 'cool' comes to mind. A grown woman, but barely, by the tone. I look up and see only the edge of a hood. In this weather?  
“No. Why?”  
“Because, ser, there is a perfectly good bench beside you and you sit in the dirt,” she says, turning to look at me. She has grey eyes. Unusual. Taking that as an invitation I stand, brush the grass and dust off as best I can, and sit on the other end of the bench. No wonder I failed to notice the knight; she wears green in a garden filled with trees. I can't explain how I overlooked the glint of her armour, however, except lack of vigilance.  
I recognise her as the woman giving me dirty looks throughout my induction. The fact that she is giving me a dirty look now that she recognises me as the man who swore during his induction helps with that.  
“Good afternoon, ma'am.”  
“A benediction to you, ser,” she replies, looking me dead in the eye.  
Oh no, you don't.  
“Seems rather a fine day to be garbed in armour, my lady,” I say. Much to my annoyance I find myself appropriating something of her accent, a trick I learned to twist someone's hand in your own favour. I don't want her bloody favour. And I like my own accent how it is.  
“I could be called to duty at any time. That's why I carry my sword,” she says. Frosty woman, isn't she? I can't resist looking, though, and notice the inlay. That's a channelling sword for true.  
“You have the art?” I ask.  
My query gets her to look at me properly, if shrewdly.  
“An art, yes. I am a Divine Knight,” she tells me. I'm not truly familiar with the term, but a bell rings somewhere.  
“They call me White Knight. I could never quite master being a Holy Knight. The term is... euphemistic.”  
At least she smiles at my half-arsed attempt at a joke before she turns away again. I look where she looks and see nothing. Well, I should say, not nothing – I see trees and grass and stone, and the sky. I suppose, also, that I see the air in a strange sense. So 'nothing' is wrong. She looks at something of no consequence, which is near the same.  
A rare person, knight or no, who does not speak for its own sake. When I look at her again I notice her, in turn, watching me. She has more interest in the not-nothings, to look at her eyes... but then, I don't blame her. Nature doesn't make mistakes like a Hume can, except when it comes to the making of Humes.  
Perhaps she merely wishes me off her bench. 'Tisn't her bench, though.  
“The Unyielding Blade. That is what they call your craft, no?” I ask. That was somewhere in my memory, I damned well knew it, next to the itineraries and the name of some long dead mark.  
“Quite so. A trick passed from Templar to Templar. My mother taught me.” There is a note there that deflects questions before they can be asked. One I know intimately. “Not all of us know it, but I have yet to meet a Knight not of our order who does.”  
“I should like to see you do it,” I admit.  
“I hope you do not ,” she says, and as I'm about to revise my opinion of her to 'outright rude' she adds, “the fewer battles we encounter, the better.”  
Hm. An interesting thing to say. “Wise words, but naiive words.”  
“So I am both?” She smiles – she is one of the only people I have known to look older, not younger when they smile.  
“Is that so unbelievable?” I ask. When the young woman opens her mouth to reply the sound of bells come out. I'm momentarily confused and impressed – then I look to the bell tower. I've already forgotten what that means...  
“The call for prayer.” Meliadoul answers the unspoken question – already I can see she had a knack for that, sharp eyes. Of course. Knights of the gods... I lean back against the wooden slats.  
“Perhaps we'll meet again,” I say.  
At this she turns, seeing that I have not moved. I spread my hands either side of my chest – what can you do?  
“You're not coming?” One of those people to state the obvious, like it will change someone's mind.  
Dropping my hands I say, “No.”  
I see her, quite clearly, put another notch in her 'reasons to dislike this low-born idiot' list, but she doesn't press with words. Instead she salutes and turns to stride across the grass, to the compound. Behind her is the sun, the grass, stone, trees, all the nothing. A bird calls, half-drowned by the church bells.  
I step off the bench and settle on the earth again, laying my head on my hands.


	4. Introducing the Lioness - or, Things one does not wish to consider about one's elders.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loffrey is a sarcastic arse; Meliadoul is a strong, independent Knight who don't need no man; Izlude tries his best.

_Where once was doubt there is now conviction, hot where the cold left hollows. It shears away ideals gone rotted inside with age, those held by all Humes because they are Hume. Where there were scruples held for their own sake he has only desire. Where there was weakness is strength – where sorrow, the hard lines of determination. Their wills are cut into one another, merciless like iron. Both grip equally, a vice._

**Loffrey:**

 

“Slow down, boy! That I had half your energy...”

That Tengille child... He has a time mage in his boots and hobgoblins in his trousers.

“You just need to hurry up, old man,” Izlude replies. He falls into step with me, smiling – strange how he looks like his mother when he does that. The grey eyes, I suppose.

“Old man, hm? A rich observation from a boy who walks bent over.” I prod Izlude's back and he straightens, chagrined. “I told you not to slouch.” 

Now he's looking down at me. Has his father's blood, in that regard. I turn to look at him and, from the corner of my eye, notice a green dress, gold armour and the long, swift strides of Meliadoul.

“Greetings, brother, Loffrey,” she greets us as she slows to match our gait. The pair of them flank me... and both are taller. Blast it. Izlude is grinning at his sister and I spot her smile back, reluctantly. She smiles for the boy when she thinks I'm not looking. Around any other she is shy and guarded – it doesn't seem unreasonable, knowing her stock, that she was taught that kindness is a weakness. Not that she would be wrong, but the boy is young enough to deserve vulnerability. 

Though I say that, by all rights he is a man now. He is in his eighteenth year, he has shed lifeblood.

The chapel is small, big enough for the Templars and their squires and the higher-ranking staff to fit without echoing in an overlarge space. Even now it feels queer to be this side of the altar. The intervening years and the knowledge that every word is a lie should have dampened the impact.

“Folles didn't come,” Meliadoul tells me as she sits, “again.”

Izlude looks more confused than scornful at the concept of disobedience. It must hardly cross the boy's mind. Meliadoul, has a priest's fury in her eyes. The young woman's a lioness – if I didn't know better, I might fear her ire myself. Mayhap.

Rather than reply I nod. The preacher, if he deserves the name, is clearing his throat.

I can scarcely remember the last time I listened to that old bastard witter on about the gods. I know the makings of a good sermon. I would say that I lost my faith but that would require a certain carelessness – rather that I abandoned it. Even beforehand, however, the man's droning wouldn't convince a simpleton. He could preach to the choir and they would find him dull – in fact, judging from Izlude's complaints as a boy, they very much do.

I do not blame Folles, though I would not call his little 'statement' wise.

Biggs is babbling about daemons and fornication again. I almost smile.

 

**Meliadoul** :

 

Try as I might to focus, Biggs is a boring man. Izlude is valiantly paying attention and, for some reason, Loffrey is struggling not to laugh. It's subtle, but I know his eyes by now – he's far too amused. Even I am past the age for snickering over such things as sexual deviancy. Why would he –

Wait. I'm not sure I want to know, do I? Before my mind can run away with itself I concentrate on Biggs, who has moved onto the sins of materialism. He never talks about anything positive. Maybe he'll talk about familial love and the positives of a happy marriage one day, that would be a blessing. Stupid waste of time, marriage, but at least it isn't all fire and brimstone, despite what I hear from Barich. 

Men marry and all is well for them, little changes that they don't allow (despite what I hear from Barich). For me to marry I would need to lay down my sword – then again, Mother didn't. I suppose that's why she became my mother. I'll be a Templar like her if it costs me the world. Motherhood, perhaps not. Izlude can give me sweet nieces and nephews when he's older; he's a caring sort.

The summons has ended by the time I break out of my reverie. The others are standing and Biggs has left. Back to the day's work, then, or lack thereof. Today is my rest-day. Short of an attack or my agreement to train my little brother, I have no pressing duties. 

Loffrey touches my shoulder. “Break your fast, Meliadoul. I will teach you more of the Unyielding Blade in the Channelling Room.”

I nod, pleased. An empty day is a wasted one. 

“Of course,” I say, guiding Izlude along with me as I make for the refectory hall. I think Loffrey eats too rarely but it is not my place to question him, much as I'd like to scold him when I find him at his books during the witching hours.

After all, I can only find him because I'm down in the library myself.

“Come, Izlude. What will you do while I train?” I ask. He shrugs.

“Maybe I will train as well,” is his reply. “As you train. Apparently I have been... lagging. Um.”

Ah, I see. I nod, not pressing him for where this 'apparently' comes from.

“Very good. Commitment is the first step to victory, Nightblade.”

He smiles, but his eyes won't meet mine. Fortunately, the cacophony of voices in the refectory breaks the awkward silence that follows. Excellent. Mother always teased me for my appetite, but I'm bloody _starving_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a linking chapter than anything, largely just fleshing out how I portray the bunch. Also hinting at various headcanons and so forth.


	5. The Burning - or, Izlude Eats a Chocobo, In His Mind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tengille siblings practice their respective arts.

_She has waited across millennia for this, for him, for them. Shining one, bright-star-beautiful one. She, the sublime and perfect, the ultimate being. She, whose radiance throws all else in shadow, blinding and brilliant one. She waits for him to open the gate, She waits quiescent, She waits curled in a body perhaps unborn. She may wait centuries yet but he will free Her. She above and nurturer of them all, his light, the unfading jewel in his ancient memory. **She.**_

**Meliadoul** :

 

Armour rips open like a crab's shell, bursting inward at the chest, the back, the sides. The arms gouge into the arms and the gauntlets become a mess of nails.

The mannequin, as well as the armour, is ruined. I lower my sword and allow myself to smile. I have a long way to go, of course, and I hate to be boastful, but I think I'm improving. 

“A fine job, Meliadoul,” Loffrey congratulates me, “You'll be needing a better tutor than I before long.”  
My eyes widen; a high compliment indeed. Had she lived, Mother would have continued to teach me, and teach me as Loffrey now teaches me. Now I suppose it must be Father, and I'm unsure if I like that. Training sessions taught by both the master of the craft and your own blood – it will be uncomfortable... and while Loffrey is a harsh master, he is at least fair. I'm not sure if I can face the knives of my father's perpetual disappointment in an art so important to me.

“Don't look so moon-eyed, girl.” Loffrey is feeling where the armour has broken, and how. I banish the worry from my mind. “My control of the art is poor. Had you not surpassed me it would be disappointing, with your blood. I admit, though, you progress faster than I would anticipate. Remind me not to underestimate you, should we cross blades.”

Though his face remains grim, I know his words for a joke, and smile. “Maybe I will outstrip you in Magick as well!”

“Hm – and perhaps swine will take wing. You couldn't create a fire spell in a teapot.” 

It's strange. We rarely speak now I am older and have my own duties. Over the years I've come to tell apart Loffrey's moods though he seems, to most, always the same: soft spoken and calm. Though his words are often chiding he rarely raises his voice above a library murmur. He must have learned a long time ago that a man like him doesn't have to.

After my training with him is over, I'll have little reason to talk with him. We're Templars, after all. It's all very well to dally with one's brother, but I am no longer a girl. I can't follow a man about and jest with him, not any more.

I'm half tempted to foul up and delay my 'graduation', but that would be something a girl would do. I will accept this new era gratefully, when it comes.

“Come on, girl, don't make me waste good weapons. I want this sword shattered properly.”

Still smiling, I raise my beloved sword. While I may be a woman now, I don't think I mind that Loffrey will call me 'girl' to his grave.

 

We train a while and then, rather for the sake of it, spar. While channelling arts are innate and sharpened by discipline, swordsmanship is a matter of practice and strength. Each portion of a minute longer I hold my own against Loffrey is how I measure my improvement. I can hold out for a satisfying amount of time now. Sometimes, mostly by fluke, I find my practice sword at his neck instead. When I become overconfident (and I must confess that I do) he still routs me. Just recently he tripped me into the sword rack.

Loffrey leaves me to put the weapons away. I am his student, after all. For good measure I arrange those left out of order by others using the swords for practice and then head out. I hear footsteps, sharp with an odd cadence – often heavy. Closer I can hear Izlude mumbling to himself, and his heavy breaths from exertion.

I watch him a while, like I often do. Not that he is an oaf in his everyday life but he might seem one in comparison, watching him dance – dancing is the word for it, when he's practising. Without the ugliness of bloodshed his movements are graceful and fluid, his glaive an extension of his own arms. 

Whoever told him he is failing must have a shrewder eye than I; Izlude is beautiful. My little brother. 

I frown, though, when I see his expression. Normally Izlude dances as if half-asleep, caught up as he is – now there is anger and distress on his features. It doesn't suit him. With that in mind I notice a kind of sharpness in his steps that wasn't there before; where I would call him flowing he moves like chopping waves. Skilled still, but harsher.

The blade glows, too. I've been told he isn't meant to let it do that yet, not alone. Perhaps I should –

With a sudden hoarse cry he lets the blade go. There is a flash of gold as it pierces through the stone near his feet and then he stands, panting from exertion. I take a second to overcome the jolt of adrenaline (he is surprisingly loud, and viper quick when he wants to be), then say, gently,

“Izlude.”

He looks up as if I were a spectre, his grey eyes wide. When I smile his expression eases a little, but not much. He looks tired, so tired.

I walk over to him without another word and I see in his eyes that he wants to move away, but I make my face stern and he lets me approach, put a hand on his shoulder. Then I notice the burns. There's a pattern to them, a magick-pattern.

“Your palms, Izlude,” I say, firmly. Cringing, he holds them out. It might have been awkwardness or pain that had him flinch – his hands are webbed with them. Is that why he can't practice alone?

“I – it shouldn't... shouldn't do that. He said I should let it in, it will make me stronger, I'll be closer with the blade, it won't burn like this but... it doesn't feel right. He put something in the... in the glaive,” he says, haltingly. I can hear him struggling to keep his voice calm. I have a feeling I ought not to repeat this. To anyone.

His eyes are painfully open and I take his wrists, not able to hold his hands. Then I sigh and, regardless of his faint resistance, pull him closer and wrap my arms around him, hugging him tight.

“Don't do this to yourself, Izlude,” I warn him. His arms are awkward around me where he doesn't let his hands touch anything. “Promise me you won't hurt yourself like this.”

I feel him shake his head. “I have to... I...” He puts his head on my shoulder and I let him cry; I know from experience the sound of frustrated tears and find myself stroking his hair like mother used to, staring at the glaive embedded in the cold, hard stone.

 

**Izlude** :

 

She's no chemist but Meliadoul does a decent job binding my hands. The cool salves are a blessing. I hadn't even noticed how much they hurt until I let go, really... I'll master it. I'll become the Nightblade without letting that... thing... have its way with me. I will. 

My sister pats my shoulder when she's finished, smiling brightly. I'm grateful that she doesn't show me her pity or make any comment on my tears when I pry the glaive free.

Probably shouldn't have let my anger get the better of me. Still, I feel a thrill of something when I look at the hole. Fear, maybe, of the blade's potential. I think it's pride, though. Maybe even power. I'm not familiar with it, though. Power is probably best left alone. I just want skill, that's quite enough for me. So what if I want to be the best at something? Doesn't everyone? 

Even though my hands burn, I won't let Meliadoul touch the weapon. Not ever.

We head back upstairs. I want this damned thing out of my hands so badly I want to run there, but then, Meliadoul would say something. I need to be strong for her. She has plenty of her own strength, but she doesn't need to be lending me any. 

“You come to my room once you've washed yourself,” Meliadoul instructs me. “We go to eat together.”

Food is the last thing on my mind. Maybe that's why she's forcing me to. I sigh.

“Then we're under agreement. Be here soon or face my wrath.” She sweeps away, leaving me in peace. Needless to say, the baths for males and females are separate. At least being a Templar nobody asks about the bruises. They just think I'm a pretty shit Templar, to have so many. That will do. Better a bad Templar than a bad son.

As I'm soaking in the hot water – bless Ivalice and its hot springs – I can feel my muscles loosen. I keep my hands out until I have to. I climb out and I'm suddenly hit by a hammer, and that hammer's made out of pure hunger. I dry off quickly, padding to my sister's room to fidget while she probably takes her time, like girls do, turning into a prune.

Maybe Meliadoul will have time to dress these burns again before I eat her. Damn, I'm _ravenous_. 

She arrives, hair still damp, and she does manage, though barely. All I can think about is steak. They won't even have steak, but _food_. Meliadoul catches my look and laughs.

“Come on, before you eat my books,” she says, heading off down the corridor. Don't need telling twice, ma'am!


	6. Heresy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wiegraf has a decision to make.

_His dreams are no longer his. In darkness he is closer to the sublime than to human, eyes shut and seeing what the Lion sees. A crusade, shining wings, dark legions behind a cruel master with horns that pierce Heaven. A host to challenge the dominion of the Gods. He finds only flashes but he feels ancient, he sees into a past that only the stone allows him to fathom. His body spent in a holy war... He wakes scratched and bleeding, blood in his nails. He understands._

 

 **Wiegraf** :

 

Heretic hunting is somewhat ironic, and sits not well with me. When Barich handed me the missive this morning and then limped away, I expected to have been sent on some mission to slap some dissident's wrist. Instead, the first word my eyes fall on is 'cultist' and the next is 'demons'. 

Rather heavier than I anticipated. Three of us have been sent – Barich, Meliadoul, and I. Dead or alive business. Knowing cultists they'll cower the second they see us and beg to be given succour in the dungeons. They have grand ideals and the spines of worms.

They must be testing my loyalty to this new cause. At this point I am unsure if I want to live up to the standards of the Templars... why I am even here. I ponder it as I strap on my armour and reach for my sword, then pull it out of its sheath.

I run my fingers along the tang. The patterns are within the blade, leaving no flaw, so I cannot feel them except as a tingle attuned to my own flow of magick. The old one sparked, pulled. I buried her in stone to mark my sister's grave. Here is the replacement, a tool in my 'new life'. Already we grow closer; perhaps that is a sign of promise. 

I sheath the sword – the scabbard I have kept, and none can wrest it from me. Once this blade has proven itself in my hands it will gain a name. For now it is a stranger I treat with respect.

Barich and Meliadoul wait for me in what can be called the foyer. 

“Well if it isn't our pretty golden lad, hm?” Barich turns when he hears my footsteps. It always surprises me when Barich speaks. He hasn't the twang of a high-born molly and I still expect it. His voice is the deepest of us, in fact absurdly so. He has a bass growl like a bear, and the temper of one to boot.

“Pretty?” I grunt, and the face I pull makes him laugh. Maybe it was an ugly face. Meliadoul isn't amused.

“Shall we off?” she says, coolly. Barich hefts his gun and follows after as she strides off, skirt blowing in the strong wind as she steps outside.

I can only assume that she wears trousers under there. Not that I really want to be thinking about what's under Meliadoul's skirts. The wind is chilly despite the warm sun but any armour sufficiently sword-proof is also wind-proof. It only nips my face. The chocobos are waiting for us in the holding pen. I walk up to the bird tossing her head and fretting the floor, reaching behind her crest and tickling her. The tetchy ones remind me of my Boco. 

“Bird-botherer,” Barich grunts as he mounts up. I pay him no heed and swing into the saddle. Meliadoul rides like a man, which is only sensible. A knight riding sidesaddle is asking for a broken spine. 

We ride. It is a long time, and in silence. I find myself musing as my bird's claws bite into the earth tirelessly. These 'heretics' – they are likely no worse than me. Peasants, I imagine, led by a fool who can read. They even taught me to read. After all, a commander must be able to read his own missive's. At the time I found myself chagrined, a grown man being taught the shapes of letters like a child. Then, finding the world that was open to me, the number of clandestine things that were able to unfold now I knew something so simple as lines... I was amazed, then enraged. So much was closed to my people for so simple a thing. I taught every Dead Man, I told them to teach their wives and husbands and children. Perhaps they did.

That was back when I thought words meant a damn thing. Now the only writ that matters is that capable of being cut into a man by a blade. The pen is mightier than the sword only if the nobility allow it. Otherwise letters are as potent and meaningful as a chocobo scratching for feed. 

I was taught that by a year of hunger, by the knowledge that no epitaph carved into my sister's grave would do anything to bring her back to me.

“Your face is as black as the Deeps, Wiegraf.” Meliadoul's voice cuts into my train of thought. I glare at her as if she could know that she interrupted me, but she is impassive. 

“What?” I grunt. Truthfully, I wasn't even aware of making a face. Now I force my expression to become neutral.

“If you wish to scare these heretics into submission, you are doing a fine job practising. However, you will have wrinkles by the time we reach them if you continue,” she says. Despite myself, I smile slightly, and it broadens when she smiles back. Her hood has been pushed back by the headwind and I'm surprised to note that her hair is short. Even Milleuda put her vanity before sense in that regard.

“This is my natural face,” I protest, not particularly feeling the joke. 

She says, “That it is,” with too much seriousness for me not to frown. Before I can reply Barich raises a hand and points to a gap in the trees. Huddled around a fire that struggles in the cold are the heretics. A sorry lot, but all have a complex symbol on them somewhere, painted in red. It isn't even blood – not rooster or cat blood, only red ochre. What demon summoners are these, that we are sent to bring to justice?

We make no attempt at stealth and soon they all stand frozen, watching us approach. Gold armour, they must think. _Shit_ they must think.

Meliadoul's voice startles me, loud in the quiet wood. 

“Heretics!” she shouts. “Bring forth your leader that he may be judged!”

I see a furrow form in the huddle and two hooded figures step out. A man, and a woman with proud bearing. She holds a book. I find myself staring at them, studying their gaunt faces. 

“The Templarate send their hounds?” The woman has a shrill voice, but commanding. She isn't at all old. “What is it to be, then? The stake? A hanging?”

Meliadoul shakes her head. “The dungeons,” she replies, still loud, “Come with us and you will be absolved. Your flock will be forgiven.”

Hm. Like I haven't heard that one before. I let Meliadoul do the talking, rolling my shoulders where the riding has made them stiff. Maybe it will look threatening. To my surprise the heretics stand firm, even while those skulking behind them urge them on.

“Confess!” Meliadoul barks, drawing her sword. Sunlight catches on the channelling-runes and they glow with unnatural blue. An impressive stunt, but a stunt all the same. She looks at me and I, restraining a sigh, walk towards them, hand on the hilt of my sword. 

“Don't make this harder than it has to be,” I say to the pair and come to stand before the woman, looking down. Her eyes are grey and hard while her companion's are brown and fixed on Meliadoul's rather fearsome blade. I pay him no mind. I draw my own sword and hold it to the side. Intimidation is better than confrontation – a basic rule of the Corpse Brigade.

“Dog of false gods!” the woman spits – on me, actually. Charming lot, these heretics. “Sooner Hell than your succour!”

When I open my voice to reply a gravelly, bear-like voice comes out instead. I turn over my shoulder to look at Barich and my eyes widen. It's the barrel of a gun I'm looking at, not he.

“Confess or die,” he growls.

“Steady,” I tell him, my voice low. His eyes narrow and he jerks the gun aside in a dismissive gesture.

“Stand aside, Folles.” 

I shake my head without thinking about it. “Don't be so bloody stupid!”

Even with me in his way his finger tightens on the trigger. I sigh through my nose. Idiot woman, fool of a Templar, shit on him.

“You will see freedom, should you repent,” I whisper to them. If I don't step aside I have a feeling Barich will simply shoot through me. She'll see sense in the dark eye of that gun, I'm sure of it. I move out of Barich's way and look at her, willing her to swallow her pride.

When the man opens his mouth, she strikes his arm with the book, hard, and he falls quiet.

“To Hell with you,” she swears and plants her feet. My curse of frustration is drowned out by the gunshot. 

She falls like a sack. _Thud_. I feel nothing at the sight – too long was the war for me to survive and yet still fear the sight of death. Still, something drops in my gut as the heretics scatter. 

All but one. I can recognise the signs of a man numb with fear and I slap him, hard. Rather than snap out of it he only shrieks and falls over. 

“Folles!” Barich shouts. I'm standing over the heretic, willing him to run, but he remains on the floor like a dumb sheep and won't move. I have to turn around.

“Yes, Fendsor?” My tone is icy.

I see something cold in his eyes as he looks at me, then the frozen heretic. The man is struggling to control his breathing and I see him shaking. He doesn't pray; whatever profane God he worships will not help him now.

Barich watches me. I look to the mess his bullet has made of their ringleader's head and feel an unpleasant numbness come over me. 

“We will let the others go,” he says, “Make an example of this man.”

I scowl. I look at the other 'example' and feel sickened only because I am not sickened. “Nonsense. Let him go and he will never tell a word for gratitude.”

“Do the honours, _Folles._ ”

Meliadoul is staring at the floor, her sword now sheathed. Her jaw is set but she makes no sound, no intervention for this man.

A test, then. My hand, gripping my unnamed blade, is trembling as if I were a greenhorn unused to blood. It itches in my grasp and I want to drop it, dig it into the earth and run, back to the mountains, to jail, to the gallows, anything. But it won't save his life. They will murder this man and then they will hunt me down as well. That power is theirs. I think of the Templarate, my red robes – the power to find Ramza, to avenge Milleuda with blood.

I have killed my own comrade, why not this? Why this shivering wretch of a man who makes me question? 

_Because he is innocent_ , I think, and my bile rises as I raise the sword and behead him.


	7. The Flock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History is a blind man, walking in circles.

_Each day She grows closer. He feels it, the growing beat, like a pulse, the flow of the blood of legions. It pools and gathers in the war-fields, slaking Her lust. Through the ground it seeps and into Her veins, into the pores of the earth where She now rests. It trickles down and into the tip of each blood-soaked feather. Every body his blade cleaves is broken in Her name. Each drop of blood on his lips is on Hers also, ruby red and calling Her to life._

_The lucidity of it... He feels it swell between them, a bridge between near and far, and inside him it grows like a tumour, like an opening eye. They will awaken, breathe, become._

 

 **Wiegraf** :

 

The soil seems too greedy for his blood and the sound of his skull hitting the earth is much too loud. My own breathing, too, seems deafening. 

I hear Barich's grunt of appreciation as if from far away, then notice that it is – my legs have walked, more like staggered, off into the brush as if of their own autonomy. I half fall onto a tree stump and then look down. The sword, slick and tainted with blood, mocks me.

We tried one time too many to defy death for their sake. Now they starve and your ghost lingers. Before I can die I must see you freed. But what do you want from me? 

Where is Wiegraf, who would have died as a shield for her without a second thought? Who is this man to rationalise life? I've baptised this sword with the blood of someone I know to be an innocent. It has proven itself, for true...

“Ersatz, then.” The first word to come to mind is often the best one. My old blade has simply been named Arcadia. I never bothered to explain. I lower my head, folding my hands over the blade and resting my head on them. An old pose, and familiar. Milleuda would mock me for it, calling me an old man. I hear footsteps behind me, but they are light and not one-sided. Meliadoul. I might have lunged for Barich. Many the dead fool has underestimated how fast I can strike; he would not have been the first.

“You did well,” she says solemnly. On second thought, I find it hard not to lunge for her.

“Well?” I snarl, turning so quickly the sword drops to the ground. Her eyes harden.

“It is a distasteful business, I know, but heretics – “

I find that the only solution that doesn't involve punching is to repeat her words back at her. “Distasteful, is it?”

For a moment she looks about to argue, then she sees my discarded sword and sighs.

“You did what you had to,” she says. Meliadoul picks her way through the branches and leans against the tree next to me. Her hood is back up and she watches me from under it with reproach.

I remember impaling Gustav. It takes a lot of force to drive a blade through a man. I recall distinctly the reverberations of his bones crushing, more than any I have killed but my first. He still looked shocked. 'He started it' is a poor excuse but I do what I must. I will bear the blood and anguish as long as Ivalice needs me to. If I have to feel his reproach in my dreams from here until doomsday, I will gladly. One blood-brother or ten are nothing to the eye of the world. 

That was what I had to do. And yet here is this corpse, and with it I have killed more than a man. That I know. Had to, should have... 

I shake my head. “I did no such thing. I should have made Barich shoot me rather than see that man die.” 

As I speak I pick up the sword and look around for something to clean the blood off with. These blades resist rust but I find that the action of more symbolic purpose and, as well as that, habitual. I used a sword of plain steel once. Blood and rain cannot bite channelling blades. How much has changed...

I find a patch of grass and Meliadoul continues to lecture me while I hastily clean the blade,

“You would put the life of a heretic before your own?”  
“You would put your own life before that of another?” I counter, sheathing the half-clean blade with an unpleasant sound. She looks as if she will offer a retort and then snaps her mouth shut so sharply I fancy I can hear the sound. Turning on her heel, she strides off through the bracken. I have no choice but to follow.

Barich is waiting for us, and he limps back towards the chocobos when he sees Meliadoul approach. As I am about to follow, the fallen book catches my eye and I am struck with a grim curiosity. What is it that these people died for? Why is my sword stained? 

Leather-bound, old-looking. Now it is blood splattered, but I think it was created grimy. I pick it up, keeping one eye on the backs of the Templars, and flick it open. My fingers tingle with sick realisation as I stare at the pages of writing, picking out a word here and there. It is enough. 

This is no book of heresy. _Those bastards couldn't even read._ With something I can only call a shriek I toss the book of white magic to break against the trunk of a tree and stride after the Templars. My blood is boiling me – a warning that I am about to do something rash, that legendary 'Folles temper'. I have enough presence of mind to pick the book up again before I move after the snake.

“Fendsor! _Fendsor you fucking fool!_ You sick bastard, do you know what you have done?” I bellow. Years of training have made me loud enough that they stop and turn like whips, or perhaps they can hear the naked anger in my voice, but I do not care. Barich's eyes narrow at me when I approach him, inviting my accusation.

“I trust you did not read this book of daemons, ser Fendsor,” I hiss, holding the grimoire up in one hand. With a humouring look he takes it from me and flicks through. Meliadoul, taller than him, reads over his shoulder with growing horror, but remains silent. Her eyes and mine are on Barich's calm face.

All he says is, “I see we were mistaken.”

“Is that all? For those people we killed?”

Barich clears his throat, putting his hands on his hips while he searches for words. “What you fail to understand, Folles, is the nature of heresy. Does it matter that they would have summoned daemons? It matters only that they thought they did. They sought to undermine the nature of the Gods and the Church. They spoke out and too loudly. Is that clear?”

What stuns me more than his excuse is that Meliadoul appears placated by it, stepping away with a look of grudging acceptance. I will not.

“They died because they said the wrong thing? That – that is all too familiar.” My sister's blood... What fool would bet against me, that those 'heretics' were low-born?

“Ivalice is.. unstable. It requires the guiding hand of the true faith now more than ever. Think of the Church as a father. If one does not respect and fear one's father, what weight does his justice have?” Barich explains – it sounds recited. I wonder where he read that analogy. To my surprise Meliadoul makes a noise of disgust and strides off towards the penned chocobos, muttering under her breath. 

“I am not one of your flock of sheep,” I say, forcing my voice calm. Then I follow her before I, too, 'speak out and too loudly'. Who knows what these God-ravens would do to me for the words I want to say. I hear a clank as Barich shrugs, and his uneven footsteps behind me as I mount my bird. 

Meliadoul isn't looking at me. Good. I could use a journey in silence, to think.


	8. Daybreak, or - Wiegraf, the bird-whisperer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something of a short breather chapter. Bird-wrangling and sarcastic Templars.

_It seems too long ago, now, that he would rise with the Sun. Ironic. Now sleep draws back reluctantly, like a soft flaying... Maybe he has begun to feel his age, but perhaps not. The dreams have become heavy, studded as they are with darkness and scabs. It takes a long time of blinking and thinking before the world is half as organised as it should be, despite the orderliness of the room, the neat array of what little he will allow to belong to him. Among it the armour, which he finds his way to while looking with disdain at the height of the Sun._

_He washes the blood from his nails and the cuts on his body methodically. Then he pulls on his gauntlets, flexing the claws._

 

**Meliadoul:**

 

The birds' harnesses jingle and click as we unfasten them, quiet as the grave. It is a job best done with more than two hands and so, sometimes, I must ask Wiegraf to 'hold this there' or he ask me for a third set of fingers, but otherwise we work in silence. Even the chocobos are sullen, scratching as the soil. Strider won't meet my eyes and the moment his saddle is off he creeps away, ruffling his feathers. Sensitive creatures, chocobos. 

“I must make a report for the heresy examiners. Have you any observations, Meliadoul?” Barich asks, and over his shoulder I see – 

“Amaranth, ai! Ai! Leave Goldy alone!” I shout, running at a particularly large black nipping at a younger yellow. She backs away with a disdainful wark, turning her back to me. I make sure she's truly left the poor bird alone before I turn my attention back to Barich.

“Nothing,” I say half-heartedly but then, when I see Wiegraf's frustrated look and add, “Nothing that Folles has not seen fit to address, by any means.”

Both men give me a look of surprise but I ignore them and bundle up the riding gear. The gate is difficult to manage and I leave it open just a second too long; a bolt of red streaks past me, making a _chrr chrr_ sound like laughter.

“Dioscuri, no! Get back in – Ajora's – why must you always –“ I drop the gear and run after the gallivanting chocobo, to no success. He lets me get just close enough that I stumble when he leaps away from me. In fact he is so focused on tricking me that he shrieks with surprise when Wiegraf wraps his arms around his neck and pulls down. Immediately Dioscuri is struggling furiously, warking like a devil.

“Is that wise, ser Folles?” 

“No need to worry... My bird, Boco, she is... was a feral. I tamed her... much like... this...” he grunts, panting from the effort as he starts to drag the bird back towards the pen. If Dioscuri really wanted to be free he would have clawed Wiegraf open by now, so he must know more about the birds than I expected.

“Whose wretched bird is this?” he asks, as I push the gate closed behind him and the trapped Dioscuri. 

“Loffrey's,” I tell him, still wheezing for air.

“...Figures.”

Now that Dioscuri has been caught, he doesn't jump the fence even when Wiegraf does. It's a game I find myself playing a little too often. I notice Barich has already left – typical! 

For a long time Wiegraf watches the birds in silence before he leans on the fence and asks,

“So. Tell me about these birds?” 

A surprising question. Nonetheless I reply, “That red, you know he is Loffrey's, his name is Dioscuri. Don't leave the gate open or... you've seen. If you can't find him, look for Amaranth, the black. He follows her. Don't ever get too close or try to take her harness – she has torn men's arms open with her beak. If you need her moved, chase her away.”

“She does this to everyone?” asks Wiegraf, concerned.

“Everyone but Vormav, yes. The two yellows standing together – the larger is my Strider. He's gentle and obedient, and I think he will come to like you. The young one is my brother's, Goldy. He's a little like Amaranth, he only lets Izlude and I near him, or he runs away. He's a sweet and loyal bird, like his master,” I explain, and turn to him to indicate I've finished. He nods, looking around. Perhaps for the bird he just rode.

“You like chocobos?” I venture.

Wiegraf nods slowly. “More than I like some people, I confess.”

“I find caring for animals is a sign of a gentle heart.”

He grunts dismissively at my approval and heads back towards the compound. The bird he rode pokes her head through the fence and Wiegraf strokes her feathers on the way past. Despite myself, the gesture makes me smile. This oaf who swore at his consecration and won't go to mass is as soft as a flan! 

I walk a short distance behind him, since the man has spines five foot long at least. Queer man, he is, but he has a strong sword-arm and a fondness for chocobos, so I suppose I ought to try.

 

**Wiegraf:**

 

Say what you will about the state of Ivalice or the trying times we live in, but nothing can compare to the calming effect of chocobos. They're big, they're warm, and they don't ask unpleasant questions. I know men and women who hate them for dumb brutes or treat them as tools but... there is an intelligence in even the dimmest bird's eyes, and they are far more loyal than Humes.

The weight of my transgression has sunk like a stone to join the others, and the river of my self can flow on again, for now. No good soldier remembers what 'calm' feels like, but I feel more at ease. Praise whatever Gods cared enough to make chocobos. I'm already feeling saddle-sore from today's ride and it hardly bothers me. Tomorrow, perhaps.

First, to get this blasted armour off. Plate was never my choice. The gold finish is a magicked thing, and ostentatious. That seems the wont of the Church. Put a ghastly looking man who can handle a sword in something colourful and you have yourself a knight these days. I know without needing a mirror that I look like a freshly warmed up corpse as of late. I can see it in the concern in the eyes of those who pass me. _Ser, are you sick?_ Not how you would call it, but inside – I am a canker of a person by now, aren't I? The only survivor of the plague I have become.

But those are dark thoughts for such a bright day. I'd like to cheer up, but I see a blue hood by my door, and I have a feeling wherever Wodring is, trouble is sure to follow. As I approach I hear a book snap shut, and his voice,

“Lord Vormav would like a word.”

“Lord Vormav is welcome to one whenever he pleases, he knows where my room is,” I grunt, in a fit of pique. I reach to pull my door open despite of him but he puts his hand on it to block me. Not about to let this turn into a game of tug-of-war, I drop the door handle and glare at him.

“Temper, temper, ser Folles,” he says.

“Aye, _mother,_ now may I go to my room?” is my reply, and I can't help but glare at the door.

His hand doesn't move. “That this was not a request should be implicit.”

“I don't know where he is,” I blurt. Leave me alone, will you?

“I am more than happy to escort you,” replies Loffrey, smoothly. Accepting defeat, I fold my arms and follow him. “You should know where to expect your fellow Templars by now. I could always give you a tour?”

I don't like the man's smile. In fact, I don't like his face. 

“Don't mock me, Wodring,” I find myself saying.

“Then I suggest not giving me reason to, ser.”

That doesn't even warrant a response. I don't like the smile on the face that I don't like – the last thing I wanted to punch this much was... Barich, actually. I expect I shall want to punch Vormav as well, at this rate.

I fall into step behind the Templar. I failed to notice how damned short he was before – I have a few inches on him, at least. At least I have more manners than to tease him about it, unlike him. 

Walking in silence is intolerably awkward. 

“Your chocobo is a terror,” I say. I consider how damned large this place is. It's a warren – likely very old, designed piecemeal rather than with any mind for easy navigation.

“Amaranth makes him look like an angel. At least Dioscuri has yet to harm anyone I did not ask him to.” Loffrey replies, then he stops and gestures to me. “Much as I enjoyed our, ah, chat, here is where I leave you.”

Where he leaves me is outside an unmarked door. None of the doors here are, in fact, marked at all. How anyone finds their way to where they belong is a mystery to me. Maybe it's just that nobody belongs. 

Trusting that Wodring hasn't led me to some poor woman's bedchambers or something equally galling, I knock on the door. 

The voice that answers is, at least, unmistakably male. The same as the one who spoke my inauguration rites, in fact – I wouldn't forget that quickly. I've found that leaders tend towards characteristic voices.

“Enter.” 


	9. Discipline, or - Enter the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insecurities and barely contained machismo meet.

**Vormav** : 

 

I hear them talking from a long way up the corridor, Loffrey who is as always misleadingly quiet, and another, hoarser voice I recognise from the inauguration. I hear them talking about my Amaranth before there is a knock.

“Enter,” I say, listening to the sound of the door and how Folles turns the handle so that it closes quietly. It's the subtle signs he does not realise he's presenting that I must measure him by. 

“Is there a problem?” he asks mildly. I see a suppressed flicker of annoyance as I turn around after too long of silence to be quite polite – proud, perhaps impetuous. Maybe insubordinate in future, after all, he is a terrorist. That is something that must be fixed. 

But he smiles back when I do, and equally false. 

“I wish to know how your mission went, ser Folles.”

“Fendsor is writing a report - “

“I'm aware of that, because I asked him to. I want your account.” 

Again the annoyance when I speak over him, but he crosses his hands behind his back anyway. 

“Two of your heretics are dead,” he tells me. My heretics? “The ringleaders. The rest scattered. Likely their morale was broken without someone to rally behind. Their book of demons was a spell-book, one I could buy from near any magick shop.” His tone is accusing.

“A pity, but heretics are heretics. We allow one heathen with a recipe book to rally the masses and before long someone will summon a daemon on our doorstep. But I suppose you would know about tactics used by insurrectionists.” 

“And had them used against me,” replies Folles, with a sharp edge. I only shrug, spreading my hands, and I can see his gaze flick to the claws at the end. Maybe he supposed they aren't functional, when in reality, I could claw off his ears without effort using the right. The left is more blunt, since I must use it for handling things best left without lacerations.

The weather turns ill. A shadow has fallen into the office and I can feel the sunlight struggling through cloud behind me, without having to look. A strange feeling it is, like feebly touching one's own skin. 

“I'm sure you did,” I say. “Who of you three dispatched these heretics?”

“Barich one... and I the other.” Is that guilt I see? Foolish man. I sit down and gesture for him to do the same, which he does with some reluctance, facing me across the papers arranged on my desk.

“Not bad for a first outing, then. You did well,” I tell him. As I expected, my compliment does not please him at all. Quite the opposite, and I can see him struggling against some remark above his rank. 

And he fails. “If doing well is to kill innocents, ser, very well,” he growls. 

“It was following my orders,” I remind him, tapping a claw against the wood. When he remains in sullen silence I press, “Or do you question my judgement?” 

“Perhaps I do. I did not join you with the intent of murder.”

I lean back, watching him critically. He keeps his composure admirably, but I've heard mention of the man's temper in the past, and where the soft parts are.

“Is that so? Was your crusade free of killing, then?” I ask. 

“No, it was not. But that was different,” he replies, quietly.

“From what?”

“From killing people who aren't even heretics!” 

“What, because high-borns must be punished for the sin of their birth? Does that not sound quite how you protested against so strongly, you and your Corpse Brigade?” 

Folles shakes his head. “You can't –“

“I can. Whatever you might have said, I can,” I growl, sitting up to face him fully. He meets my eyes unflinchingly, as if challenging. “Commander you may have been, Folles, and while I care little for your birth I am above you. I am commander, and you will accord me appropriate respect. Rank is not a construct made for the amusement of those holding it; it is a necessary component of cohesion in battle. You will do as I ask because the life of these knights will depend on it one day. Do you understand?”

A long pause, and finally he nods, grudging. His eyes are by no means sincere when he speaks. “Yes, ser.”

“If that means taking orders you would rather not then you are quite welcome to leave and pursue Beoulve alone,” I add, and that seems to strike a note, as he looks up sharply. The frustration in that look might make someone who cares feel something, but not me. “You may leave.”

I suspect this tirade has done nothing to put him in his place. 

 

 **Wiegraf** :  


Not more than five minutes of talking and he already seeks to question my morals? No doubt he wished to put me in my place, something I recall was common during the Fifty Years War. It won't be so easy for him. I am not some mutt to heel so easily. He does not frighten me.

Nonetheless, when he stands to show me out, his height startles me. I am no small man but he makes me look so as he stands next to me, looking down when he gestures for me to go with a false smile. 

He closes it behind me and I head for my chambers, struggling to contain my annoyance. It's something I'm used to doing by now, but there will be Hell to pay if any Templar interrupts me taking my armour off again. Fortunately, no fool does.

I think, though, as I remove the vambraces. 'Murder'. High-borns... I think of Gustav, of the many faceless names and nameless faces fallen to our cause. Of Milleuda, who I did not kill, but still I feel some guilt, something I cannot hold even in my mind's eye. Do I feel responsible?

And the reason I joined, which Vormav saw all too quickly, or perhaps Wodring saw and told – by any means, it s clear even to strangers that the abolition of the aristocracy is not all I seek any more. Not all I ask of these men.

Milleuda... I thought only to avenge you when you would have wanted me to finish what we started. We shall wander as wanting ghosts forever. Since I have sullied my hands there can be no justice here.

Before I can get too deep into these thoughts I wash my face, noting how tired I look, and frown.

It's as I thought. I _do_ want to punch him.


	10. Lifebreak - or, What the fuck did you just say?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loffrey pushes Wiegraf too far.

**Wiegraf** :

 

I take my ease in the book storage. Each day that passes I can feel the strength return to my body, so I may as well sharpen my mind as I used to. Since I am no longer little but muscle and bone I may as well bring substance back to the skeleton of my learning.

  
The library I was given access to for my training as a White Knight – when they had sensed some aptitude in me and taught me to read – that had seemed like the treasures of a Dynast King. I read every one, even on gardening, knowing I might never see another book in my low-born life.

  
But this! I lean on a bookshelf and smile. This is the repository for the knowledge of an ancient order. It dwarfs my old refuge. For a moment, I feel home again.

  
Home is whatever I choose to call it, after all. I had no love of my old one, but I haven't lived under a stable roof for over a decade now. Tents, bolt-holes and hospitals – it is a kind of freedom, and I don't miss having a permanent roof to call my own.

  
I wander at random as I once did, letting my instinct guide me to whichever book my hand might fall upon. Before I can, however, I spot an intruder. Blue fabric, no armour, and a boot on the table – someone settled in with a book, and not someone I had any interest in seeing.

  
Certainly not with that _beast_ on his shoulder. I've never seen a spider so big; it's easily as large as my hand. Perhaps he hears my hiss of revulsion, because Wodring turns around. I cannot see his face behind the edge of his hood.

  
“My poor Penthesilea, see how all my brothers fear you?” he says, talking over his shoulder. No – to _it_. He's named the damned thing?

  
“I'm not your brother,” my mouth says before I can stop it. I've had blood brothers, but all died young. The closest I had were Gustav and Levigne. Certainly not this stuck-up excuse for a Knight.

  
A creak of leather and wood – Wodring stands, picking the spider up off his shoulder as he does. The gentle care he takes with it makes me uncomfortable. It almost makes him human.

  
“All we Templars are brothers under the Gods, my friend,” he says, stroking an abdomen the size of my thumb. “And all of these are their creatures. She will not harm you.” He sets her on the desk and she scuttles under the darkness of his upturned book. My skin crawls.

  
“You forgot Meliadoul.”

  
“Siblings. Consanguine. Whichever you would like to call it,” he replies, with infuriating patience. “What brings you to the library, brother? I spend much of my time here, I could help you find it.”

  
Suddenly the notion of picking a book at random sounds ridiculous. I fold my arms. What I want to say is, 'pest disposal'.

  
“The history of the Templarate,” I lie, “I may as well know what I'm getting into.”

  
“Oh, that? History was my object of study in Gariland fifteen years ago, after Magicks. I could tell you that myself. But no need to listen to me rattle on – the section is just along here, halfway down.” Wodring taps a long shelf. His hands, though calloused from sword-work, look more like the hands of a man of words than a man of steel.  
Only fifteen years. I forget he's hardly older than me. I thank him and follow his hand, but I freeze on the way past when he says,

  
“My condolences – for your sister.”

  
Immediately I hackle. Do I see a hint of a smile on that stony face? “That's not your concern.”

  
“It is my concern. I am the last Wodring. I imagine it's the same for you, now,” he says. His arm blocks my passage, looking as if he were merely leaning, but just a few seconds ago he had no need.

  
“Yes and no. I am the last Folles, but unlike yours, my name means nothing.”

  
“You speak as if my title offends you, ser.”

  
I speak as if your _manner _offends me. Suddenly the man is hitting sore spots with accuracy that can only be deliberate, much as he speaks calmly. “You are aware of my history. And I would thank you not to mention my sister again.”__

  
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “I was speaking as a comrade. You are so very sore. Something to hide?”

  
At that I turn around and make to leave, not even replying.

  
“Oh – not even responding? You have the bearing of a man with secrets.” Curse my pride, I stop to hear him, I stop to prove him wrong. Under the hood his face is calm, but his eyes are strange. “I was a priest. You can tell me.”

  
“Damn your eyes, no!” I shout back. “You spoke of salting wounds still fresh, Wodring. You change your tune now.”

  
My eyes sting. A personal failing of mine; I never quite grew out of crying, but I learned to cover it with a squint. The thought of her is a wound, and the pain of it is nameless – not loss but a raw feeling that has not yet had time to form into an orderly scar. It sometimes feels as though it never will.

  
“I sing whichever song suits me. I am the clever owl that has learned to sing like the songbird, to better draw her to his breast.” A common liar, then. He steps towards me. My better judgement tells me to leave, but my anger roots me to the spot. “What secret do you hide? You ache like a lover in her absence. Tell me, Folles, did you fuck her?”

  
I punch him in the face. He staggers back and, before he can retaliate, I jump on him, knocking his head into a bookshelf as I do. I get a hold on myself – and his robes – long enough to hiss,

  
“Bastard!”

  
Then I hit him again, I hit him for wanting to hit him earlier, for ever other fucking Templar that needs a beating – Vormav, who ordered them dead, Barich, who held the gun, Meliadoul who stood by and – Gods – me, me and Ersatz. He goaded me, knowing I only needed one excuse, and I swear I could easily kill him for what he said.

  
And then I realise, suddenly, that he isn't fighting back. Not even when I can feel I cracked a rib. Then he reaches for me – and when I knock his hand away, he smiles. Skin meets skin and then – pain blooms out – my ribs – I feel blood on my lips and sag to my knees, winded and unguarded. My hands are all that keep my bloodied face from planting into Loffrey's stomach.

  
Loffrey follows, down on one knee, his breath a rasping chuckle. He sags backwards before we knock our heads together.

  
“What – devilry – is this – Wodring,” I pant, each breath twisting at my shattered rib.

“Devilry indeed,” he whispers, and winces. “You are... hn... you are too easy... to enrage. It is... unwise of you.”

I spit blood at him. Of course this is a game to him, someone who could even think such a thing.

  
“Insult – her honour – again,” I force myself to take a deep breath, to get the words out as one: “... I'll kill you.”


End file.
